Page 315 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I swallow hard. That still seems like a lot to ask. Five hundred words is a fucking ton. Pages, right? I can’t remember the last time I wrote a whole page of anything. I know Emily writes books that are two hundred times that long, and I admire her for that, but I have no idea how she does it.
“Could I ask Emily to read it before I show it to you, Sir?”
“Emily?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir. She’s a really good writer. She’ll tell me if I’ve got it all wrong.”
“Girl, this is not a test. This is about your submission tome. What’s betweenus. I told you before that no one gets a vote in what’s between us and I meant it. I like that you’re asking for help, but the person you come to for help isme. If you’re struggling that hard,Iwill help you.”
Something finally, finally clicks. I snuggle back into him and close my eyes, enjoying him holding me. “Yes, Sir.”
“Ah, now there’s where we should be, my bold girl.”
“Your snuggleslut, Sir.”
He adjusts me in his arms so not even a breath can pass between us. “Yes, girl, my snuggleslut.”
sixteen
MAC
Is there anything as special,as precious, as worth fighting and dying for, as the moment your woman gives you everything?
Amy held so much back from me. Her trust. Huge, life-altering secrets like our daughter’s true parentage. The deep insecurities and anger that drove her. I know that I stayed in the service long after I should have left because it gave me something to fight for, when Amy wouldn’t give me anything.
Bren gave me everything tonight. She didn’t say the words, but I know what we shared. She let me in completely. She let my control calm and steady her when she was on the verge of flying into a panic. She let my comfort ease her anxiety. She admitted her weakness. She let mehelp. I’ve never felt closer to anyone, stronger, or more worthy of the gift of her submission.
And because nothing is as big a turn on as Bren’s submission, my damn dick has been hard enough to hammer nails since she called herself my snuggleslut and curled up against me. Spanking her would normally have gotten my dick’s interest but that spanking was not about sex. It was about fixing her fuckingup our power-exchange. EverythingsinceI brought her back under control has been about sex, at least for my little head, but that’s not what Bren needs right now. A Navy buddy who asked me about the lifestyle said he could get on board with a woman who obeyed his every command, gave him daily blow jobs, and offered up her ass. What he didn’t get was that to be the man giving those commands, you also have to be the man who is willing to sacrifice sex in favor of taking care of your submissive when that’s what she needs. Right now, Bren needs me to be the Dom who massages away all the knots that tension has built in her neck and shoulders, the Dom who rubs cream into the impressive spread of bruises coming up on the backs of her legs, the Dom who cuddles her while she draws the portrait—of Elvis as it turns out—her employee needs for tomorrow, and then redraws it twice more when she’s not satisfied with the first attempt. She needs me to be the Dom who calms her and soothes her and tells her it’s going to be okay until she finally falls asleep.
And then she needs me to be the Dom who tucks her under the covers, slips out of the bedroom quietly, and walks downstairs to find Logan and figure out what the fuck we’re going to do about Mr. Move On and her missing book.
I hear Emily before I reach Logan’s office door. She’s talking in an almost sing-song voice. I’ve heard this before and know she’s dictating one of her books. Logan should be free. I still knock, because it’s polite. Not because I still feel like a guest in this house. Since turning down Rolling Blue, my future has become cemented here, in this house, with these people I care about. Bren said one of her fears was that I’d already had my family and wouldn’t want another, but I’ve never wanted anything more than this second family I’ve found.
“Come in,” Logan calls.
I join him at the desk and find he’s already working on the problem. Max’s bearded face is on Logan’s computer screen and Logan’s taking notes as Max speaks.
“... into the text traffic between Mad Bob and the Knights. They’re not even smart enough to use encryption, so, definitely not Aryan Nation, because those fuckers use encryption even Homeland can’t break. Got a text to Mad Bob at thirteen-fifty that says ‘package obtained.’ Package.” Max snorts. “Fucking wannabees. Then there’s a text from Mad Bob back to that number which says ‘package received.’ I figure it’s either at his shop or his apartment near JFK. Time to begin our reconnoiter, buddy.”
“Hold your horses, Max,” I say, pulling one of the leather-padded, guest chairs around to sit next to Logan. I really need to bring my desk from my apartment. “This isn’tDie Hard. No reconnoitering until we’re sure there’s no blow-back on Brenna.”
“While I hate to agree with Convo,” Logan says, his grin sly and sharp, the fucker. “We need to be certain these assholes aren’t involved in something else. Drugs? Money-laundering? They could be running a lot through Mad Bob’s shop. We need to be certain we’re not dealing with something over our heads before we go in.”
Max scratches his beard. “What if I go? I’m not the public face of LMM. There’s no connection between me and Missing Ink. Unless they’re following us, and I’ve seen no sign they are, then there’s no way for them to know who I am.”
I immediately begin shaking my head. Max is a truly scary operative when it comes to tech, but on the ground, he has all the subtlety of the proverbial bull in a china shop.
“I’ll check Mad Bob’s shop to see if any more of Bren’s designs are there. I have an excuse for going back since the girl on the desk has seen me once.”
Logan taps his pen on his notepad. “Mac, if they’ve been at Missing Ink any time in the past week, they’ll have seen you with her.”
“I didn’t leave my eyes and ears at Mayport Base, Lo. Why do you think I’ve spent so much time on the couch in her shop? No one’s been casing the place, and no one’s been following her. These guys are amateurs.”
“Amateurs can inflict the same amount of damage as a pro, Mac. They just have to get lucky instead of being good.” He runs his hand through his hair. “If you’re set on this, at least let me wire you so if it goes bad you’ve got immediate back up.”
“No argument from me,” I say.
“You’ve got your concealed carry for New York?”
